


The Reason

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Crangst?, Everybody trying their best, Family Feels, Fuku is also trying her best, Grief, Grillby is trying his best, Heats is so annoying gosh, Pre-Canon, also a crack fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24354130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: (A brief, pre-canon oneshot exploring the character of Grillby before he became the owner of the eponymous Snowdin bar)Being a dreamer without a way to make those dreams come true is hard. Struggling day in and day out to make ends meet is harder. But being a single father is by far the hardest.How does one keep going when the whole world is determined to crush them? Heats asks this exact question to Grillby, and finds the answer to be much more profound than he'd expected.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	The Reason

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! Sorry for the late upload, but my finals are finally (hehe) over and now I can spend a little more time writing these fics! Please enjoy this pre-canon Grillby story that was supposed to be fluff but turned into angst for some reason.

Not enough. There wasn't enough. There never was enough. 

Rent. He could pay that. Repairs? Barely. Fuku's daycare? Maybe if he sold the nightstand by his bed. There was absolutely no way he could visit the doctor this month, not with these funds, so he just had to pray that the water burns crisscrossing his arms didn't get any worse. Grillby leafed through the bills on the rickety coffee table. He tried not to think about the extra hours he'd worked at the high school cafeteria, or the myriad of precious trinkets he'd sold, or the relief check he received from the castle, or _especially_ how none of those things had made a difference. He held in a sigh and leaned back into the couch. To top it all off, of course, there was no money left over for the restaurant fund. He wasn't surprised. He knew this would happen. He shouldn't be upset. It had been a long, bad, brutal month, but his deferred dream sneered at his logic and broiled in his chest. If only. If only he was independent, in any and every sense of the word, everything would be so much easier. Everything. The familiar daydream surged and ebbed at his feet, taunting him, tempting him, crying out for him to believe in it for just one more month. Elbows on his knees and head hung in his hands, Grillby gave in. He watched as the dusty, damp furniture of their cramped apartment melted into a cozy bar, then an elegant kitchen, then a little pink bedroom just for Fuku where she could play and laugh and flare-up as much as she wanted. No landlords threatening them with eviction. No schoolchildren splashing water at him just to see "what would happen to the weird fire monster." No daughter forced to wear her father's shirts because there was no money for little dresses or pajamas. 

Then, just like it always did, the daydream faded and gave way to reality. There was no more bar, no more kitchen, no more bedroom for Fuku. Stagnant water dripped through the boards on the ceiling. A curious smell emanated from the ratty rug underneath his feet, and the springs of the couch dug furiously into his thighs. A familiar, dull ache had settled into his stomach, the cold, oppressive weight of knowing that one's best wasn't good enough.

He let the silence drown out his thoughts. His grief. His incessant wondering of how much easier it would all be if _she_ was here… 

Wait. Silence? Why was there silence? Grillby startled at the realization and nearly set fire to the electricity bill in his hand. An apartment where a three-year-old flame monster lived should _never_ be this quiet. In one fluid movement, Grillby got up from the couch and made his way to their shared bedroom, praying to the angel that Fuku hadn't set the bed on fire again. His flames dimmed for a split second as he processed what he'd just thought. No. He shouldn't be frustrated with her even if she had a flare-up. Flame training was hard for any young fire elemental. Learning to control one's core temperature to the point where strong emotions or exhaustion didn't lead to everything around going up in flames wasn't easy. He should know that. But it was so much harder to be patient when each time Fuku flared, a new repair bill he couldn't pay would appear on the coffee table. 

But, praise the angel, there was no sign of flame, fire, or Fuku in the bedroom. Closing the door quietly and making sure to press the soles of his shoes to the floor as slowly as possible, Grillby continued his search, smothering the urge to cry out her name. He rationalized that it was because he didn't want to startle her and risk another flare-up, but an old fear pricked at the back of his neck and wrapped itself around his SOUL. 

He started searching a little faster than before. 

The storage room was empty, along with the bathroom. No sign of her in the living room, either. There was no reason she would be in the kitchen, so he instead searched the hallway outside their door. Nothing. Anxiety mounting, he knocked on neighboring doors and asked in his infamous, hushed, crackly voice if anyone had seen his daughter. Sad, confused faces replied in the negative, forcing Grillby to cordially nod his head and speed walk back to his apartment. His nerves, doused in stress and picked apart by anxiety, sparkled, and frayed. What was wrong with him? A father who can't pay the bills or keep their daughter in their sights was no father at all. His fingers dug into his head as his flames whitened and brightened. Why couldn't he do this right? Why couldn't he do anything right? The floorboards underneath him began to steam, and several deep, shaky breaths taken slumped against the kitchen counter were the only thing that stopped him from exploding. 

"Oh, no, Daddy. No fire inside!" 

Grillby almost collapsed at the sound of a familiar, sugary voice behind him. He turned to see Fuku sitting comfortably in the kitchen trash can, wrapped in one of his old shirts and drinking tomato paste directly from a tin can. A mirthful hiss of steam escaped him as his flames cooled and twisted into something that could only be described as a smile. 

"What are you doing, Fuku?" Grillby questioned. 

"I sip on sauce!" The little green flame monster exclaimed. To supplement her statement, Fuku held the sauce can proudly in front of her face and waggled it between her fingers. It was almost empty. Grillby winced. No pizza tonight, then. But if Fuku was already full, maybe there was no need? Grillby winced again. What kind of father was so stingy and lazy that he considered a can of tomato paste an acceptable dinner for his child? Him, apparently. A terrible ache pounded in the back of his head. He did everything he could to avert his gaze from the dust jar sitting sadly on the fireplace mantle. 

"No, no, no crying!" 

Grillby hadn't been crying but felt the sudden urge to when Fuku pried herself out of the trashcan and wrapped her arms around his legs. The gentle pressure of her face against his shin eased the ache in his heart. He lifted Fuku up to his chest, humming when she rested her cheek in the crook of his neck. Fuku patted him on the back the same way he had done to her a hundred times, rubbing small circles and singing a lullaby she didn't know the words to. 

The dust jar on the mantle sparkled a little brighter. Grillby held his daughter a little tighter. 

With a start, Fuku pulled away and placed her hands on Grillby's cheeks, staring at him with the severe and grave intensity of a toddler that knew precisely what they wanted. She spoke slowly and deliberately.

"Daddy, TV!"

Grillby groaned. Of course she wanted to watch TV. Classic Fuku. Smiling at this thought, he cupped her face and scrutinized the paste smeared around her mouth and neck. This kid was messy, noisy, and the very definition of relentless. Just like her-- 

He shook the thought out of his head. 

"Fuku, listen carefully. I will let you watch _if_ you wash your face and put on your FlameGuarders. I do not want you to burn the couch while you're sitting in front of the TV."

"I not burn." 

"I know, but if you lose control of your flames, even for a little bit, the couch could catch on fire. That would be dangerous." Fuku snorted and glared at the floor below, cursing the flammability of the whole world in a language only she understood, but eventually relented. Grillby set her down on the floor and watched her waddle off towards the bedroom. Her steps were slow, sure, and confident, and not even a single scorch mark was left on the floor. Warmth flooded his chest. He gripped the kitchen counter a little harder and tried not to smile too big. It was unbecoming of someone who was supposed to be the quiet, stoic fire monster who did nothing but work and worry. 

The piercing wail of his phone derailed Grillby's train of thought. He pulled the offensive device out of his pocket and held it gingerly to the side of his head, careful not to put it too close lest it melt all over his face and hands. 

"Hello, who i--," Grillby began. 

"HEY, GRILLBZ! OPEN UP!" 

"Pardon?" 

"OPEN UP YOUR FRONT DOOR! I'VE BEEN WAITING OUTSIDE FOR, LIKE, THIRTY MINUTES OR SOMETHING!" 

Grillby, with a hand still on his phone, opened his front door to see a tiny, flame monster adorned in a construction hat and vest glaring up at him.

Heats Flamesman. 

He tried not to groan.

"Grillbz, what's gotten into you?" Heats queried as he put away his phone. "I had to call you just to get you to open this darn thing! Are you trying to ignore me?" 

"…" 

"Grillby, this whole introvert schtick you've got going on isn't impressing anybody. Not good for you, not good for me, not good for that little girl you have. What's gotten into you, cuz?" Heats weaseled his way between Grillby's legs and inside the apartment, leaving the taller fire monster staring at the empty hallway in shock. He turned around quickly to follow after his brazen guest, still confused and embarrassed after the whole exchange. 

"Were you waiting long?" Grillby questioned. 

"Uh, yeah! That's why I called you." 

"But I was just out in the hallway. How come I didn't see you?" 

His guest huffed and scrambled for words, but eventually crossed his arms in something akin to defeat. "It felt like a long time to me, G!" Heats insisted as he idly flipped through channels on the TV. "I go to work all day, work on building the CORE that creepy scientist is all but making out with, to come home to this?" 

"Heats, you don't live here." 

"Yeah? Well, I used to." 

"..." 

"In spirit! Don't get hung up on the technicalities so often." Apparently satisfied with the channel his random button mashing had procured, Heats relaxed and turned to Grillby with a smile on his face. "Hey, G, would you mind if I crashed here for the night?" 

Could this possibly get any worse? Of all the times Heats could visit, he chose the day where Grillby had no food to offer and no bed to spare. Fantastic. A familiar bitterness sloshed in his stomach, but he heard himself mumble in agreement to Heats' request regardless. Heats let out a stream of loud, enthusiastic thanks as he cranked up the TV volume to ungodly levels, and for the hundredth time that day, Grillby sighed. Well, no point in standing here and moping around. He might as well scrounge up something for his cousin and daughter to eat while standing in the kitchen. 

Grillby pulled out a small platter of uncooked meat strips from the minifridge and set in on the counter. He'd been hoping to fry them and serve it tomorrow for lunch or dinner, but he couldn't bear the thought of Fuku going to bed with nothing but tomato sauce in her stomach. Letting a guest sleep hungry was just as unacceptable. As he got to work tenderizing the meat and making an egg yolk dip and preparing the frying pan, Heats let out a remarkably uncouth groan. 

"Aw, G! Does your poor kid gotta wear that goofy-looking FlameGuarder just to watch TV?" 

Without turning around, Grillby nodded his head. He dipped the chicken strips in egg yolk, rolled them in bread crumbs, and placed them in the frying pan, all the while carefully listening to the scene developing behind him. Apparently, Fuku had already made her way back. Judging from the accusatory babbles she was tossing Grillby's way, she wasn't happy with the arrival of their unexpected guest. 

"Fuku is still going through her flame training," Grillby finally responded. "There isn't enough money for repairs if she accidentally set something on fire, even though I know she's doing her best not to." 

"She's flame training _already?"_

"Yes." 

"How can you expect her to manage her flames when she's so little? Isn't she a little young for that?"

"She is. But as soon as we can start spending less on repairs, more money can go towards us buying a better place to live." 

"You still hung up on buying that place in Snowdin?" 

Silence. The only response Heats got was the sizzling of the frying pan and the droning of the TV. Heats looked at the little girl sitting on the couch next to him and the absurd, hot pink onesie she was wearing. It certainly didn't look like a piece of intensely-enchanted clothing. Still, the cooling effect it had on his own flames, even from the distance he sat from her, spoke to the contrary. Fuku didn't seem to mind it, at least, and the only thing that really seemed to be setting her off was the fact that Heats wouldn't give her the remote. Heats relented and passed it to her, eyes drifting around the apartment and noncommittally criticizing Grillby's spartan decorative style. He stared at the fireplace mantle, the only thing in the whole miserable apartment with any personality, and startled when he saw an elegant dust jar sitting among an array of candles. Heats tossed a nervous glance at his host, who was presently engrossed in whatever he was cooking. 

The urge to say something, everything, _anything_ pressed against the back of Heats' throat. And, of course, being the one and only Heats Flamesman, the words bumbled out of his mouth without a second thought. 

"Hey, G. I'm sorry about, you know, her..." 

Grillby shuffled the strips of frying meat with a spatula and cleared his throat. 

"It wasn't your fault. Everybody lost something during the war." 

"Grillby, listen. You lost a lot more than most people. There's nothing wrong with acknowledging that." 

An oppressive silence settled on the group. Grillby, who had either hadn't heard Heats' statement or was deliberately choosing to ignore it, slid the chicken strips onto two dishes and proffered one to each of the fire monsters sitting on his couch. After gently prodding Fuku awake to eat and ignoring Heats' pointed stares, Grillby busied himself with cleaning up the kitchen. Heats anxiously fiddled with the food on his plate.

"Hey, G, can I ask you a question?" 

Grillby poured the frying oil into a cup and settled beside Heats' on the couch, his characteristic reticence a silent invitation to continue. 

"Uh, where'd you get those water burns from?" 

That wasn't the question Grillby was expecting. Sputtering and drawing the cup of oil away from his mouth, he sat back and stared curiously at Heats. 

"Don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about, G. Those burns on your arms. They look horrible. Why haven't you seen a doctor about it yet?" 

It wasn't often that Heats was right about anything, but this time was an unwelcome exception. The discolored, ashy streaks across Grillby's forearms glared right back at their owner, asking the same question Heats did. 

"No money," Grillby said.

"No money, no money, no money. Is money all you think about? Whatever or, I'm guessing _whoever,_ burned you can and probably will do it again; you gotta be careful. But this is also your fault, you obviously haven't been eating enough to restore your HP back to normal." 

"..." 

They were both looking at the dust jar, now. 

Everything was suddenly very cold. 

"Do you miss her, Grillby?" 

The bills on the coffee table fluttered. A rogue drop of water fell from the ceiling and landed on the floor. The sounds of raucous, inebriated laugher emanated from some debauched party across the hall. 

"...yes. More than anything else in the world." 

"What keeps you going?" 

How _did_ he keep going? He thought of his dreams: a restaurant, a house tucked in the corners of a little snowy wasteland, a life removed from the pain ingrained in this angel-forsaken apartment's floorboards. But whenever he reached out to grab his fantasies by the hand, the images greyed and scattered. They were nothing more than smoke on a battlefield, vapor in the nighttime wind, fog born in the mountains and bred in the valleys. 

It wasn't his hopes or his dreams that kept him alive. 

His gaze settled on Fuku's slumbering form. 

No words needed to be said. 

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope you enjoyed! Please don't be afraid to leave a comment below, each one means the world to me and encourages me to keep writing. For those of you who are wondering when the next "Mephibosheth" update will be, Chapter 12 will be coming out on Wednesday and the normal updating schedule will resume after that. God bless, stay safe, and stay healthy!


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